Elegie
by jam-bafta-tesco-kitten
Summary: One night after their parents' death, six year old Sherlock creeps downstairs to make tea and finds Mycroft waiting for him in the study. Mycroft tells Sherlock a story about their parents to calm him down. Pretty much just fluff.


Six year old Sherlock Holmes crept downstairs and peaked into the study. He sighed when he saw his brother still hard at work. Mycroft was sure to be furious that Sherlock was out of bed at this hour, especially since he had school in the morning. Ever since their parents died he had become so strict. He padded silently down the last few stairs and was halfway to the kitchen before Mycroft noticed him and looked up from his work. Again? he thought to himself, Honestly, Sherlock. He walked over to the staircase and stood there, his hands on his hips. "Sherlock?" he asks, with tight lips.

Sherlock looked up at his big brother with tears welling up in his eyes. He's going to beat me, Sherlock thought. "M-mhm?" Sherlock stuttered, trying to hide his pain so he didn't seem weak in front of his big brother. Mycroft sighed inwardly, reading Sherlock's look. He knew he'd been on edge lately and usually didn't feel bad about it – sixth form was hard enough without having to raise your younger brother – but the flat-out-fear in the boy's eyes made him feel guilty and consequently more bitter about having to take on the role as consoling parent.

"Why are you up?" he asks gently.

"My tummy hurts," Sherlock told him, his bottom lip pouting out a bit. "I was going to come get some tea, but I was afraid you'd be angry." Mycroft stayed silent, absorbing his brother's reply. It stung that Sherlock thought he'd be angry for wanting tea, although in fairness, he knew this would have been his exact reaction, most likely not pausing to ask what the reason behind Sherlock's disobedience was. Sherlock interpreted Mycroft's silence as disapproval and turned to go back to his bedroom, muttering, "It's all right, I'll just go back to bed so you can study alone. I'm sorry for bothering you."

"No, that's not necessary," Mycroft told him, realizing he had hurt the small boy's feelings. "Come back down and I'll make you some tea." He waited for Sherlock to turn and join him before leading him to the kitchen, setting him on the counter, and turning the stove on to heat up the water that was already in the kettle. As soon as it had heated, he fixed like he knew Sherlock liked it – the way their mother used to – and handed it to him.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, carefully sipping the tea.

"Mm?"

"Mycroft, I miss Mummy and Daddy," he said softly. Mycroft looked at his little brother, seeing him simply as the rest of the world saw him: he was very thin, slightly taller than other boys his age. He had a mop of dark curly hair, which he had gotten from his mother, and his father's big, innocent eyes, curiously shifting between green and blue and grey every now and then. In addition to these things, however, he also saw him now as a parent. Sherlock was quite sensitive, although he didn't show it. He cared deeply about others but Mycroft had noticed this beginning to fade in the wake of having both his parents taken from him before he even started primary school. He was incredibly smart – he had been reading since the age of three – and one of the most perceptive people Mycroft had ever met, including adults. He had an uncanny ability to tell exactly how a person was feeling. He sensed this waning as well since their parents' death. Aside from Mycroft, he didn't care much about how others felt.

"I know, Sherlock," he said, sitting on a stool by the counter and pulling the boy down in his lap. "I miss them too. Very much." And Mycroft did. Although they sometimes got on his nerves, he now recognized how much he had relied on them. Mycroft was now completely responsible for not only himself, but also for Sherlock.

"Tell me a story about them," Sherlock asked Mycroft, as Mycroft carried him back in to the sitting room. "Something that happened before I could remember." Mycroft was silent for a few minutes, thinking, then repositioned Sherlock so they were facing each other.

"You know how Mummy played the piano?" he asked him, and Sherlock nodded. "When you were a baby and you were upset or sick or sad, she used to bring you in and sit you on her lap while she played. Within the first bar you would be mesmerized, having completely forgotten about whatever was bothering you. One day when you were about two years old, you had been crying because you dropped your book in the dishwater, so she came in and sat down with you and began playing one of your favorites, Rachmaninoff's "Elegie in E flat minor." Daddy was in the kitchen and he called her name, and when she slowed her playing to respond to him, you reached up and played the next few notes by yourself." Mycroft smiled at the memory, something he hadn't thought of for years. "That was when they first really realized how incredibly smart you were."

"I'm smart?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. He had never thought of himself that way but he supposed if Mycroft thought so…

Mycroft chuckled. "Of course you are. You're brilliant, Sherlock." Sherlock looked up from his tea, his eyes dry now, and handed Mycroft his mug. "My tea's all gone."

"We better get you to bed, young man. You've got to go to school tomorrow." He took the mug and set it in the sink, before carrying the boy back up to his room. He set Sheerlyck down on the bed and tucked him in, kissing him on the forehead. "Don't expect me to be this kind to you every night," he said jokingly before turning off the lights and going back downstairs to study.


End file.
